


I hope you dream of me

by thegirlinred



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5858800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlinred/pseuds/thegirlinred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Red was unlike anyone the Artist had ever met. Light seemed to emanate from him. From his complexion, to his demeanor, to his posture. He was the single beautiful thing in a terrible place. Yet there was sadness in his eyes, and his smiles were always tight. Yet the Artist was drawn in like a moth to a flame. He needed to understand him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I hope you dream of me

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the archive warning. I apologize in advance.

Lithe fingers finger aC chord. Then B7. Ab. G. He sighs and leans back, losing his balance and falling onto the bed. He sits up quickly and continues. He was lucky a customer wasn’t in there, that kind of mistake could break character and lose the customer completely. But he was early, always was early. Not like he had any friends. Being new to the city does that to you. Even at work he didn’t know the names of the people here, and that’s kind of vital to friendship. They went by code names. How weird was that? Guess it goes with running a barely legal whorehouse.

Well, technically not a whorehouse. He was a ‘private performer’ specializing in a specific type of character. If he ended up naked and did some unmentionable things, it was nobody’s business but his own. It was a gig and it paid. That was better than he had done for six months. Maybe he went to confess more often, but that was his business only as well. Artist. He was the artist. That’s all the other works and customers knew about him. Depending on the customer’s preference, he could have paint covered hands or clay covered hands. It was messy and beautiful. In theory, at least.

Most of the time he talked about Impressionism and they palmed themselves for fifteen minutes. Mentioning Monet while licking his lips was his personal favorite move, definitely a finisher that he used quite often. At first, he hadn’t understood why they finished so quickly. But after a while he figured out the very thrill of coming here did it for people. The sheer depravity of what they were doing brought them to the edge. You barely had to do anything to finish them. He mostly ended up base rates, rarely earning extra for specific requests. Money was money, and he got by pretty well. Until he met the boy in red.

Arriving early and keeping his head down worked for a couple weeks but eventually the characters grew on him and he was chatting between sessions. But there was one man who never stopped to chat. He’d been there since the beginning, and could play any character. The Artist went a while never encountering him until he was offered double base rate to participate in a scene with him and a customer. Ménage a Trio wasn’t his usual style, but the pay was good. His vices didn’t pay for themselves.

After that, the boy would smile at him from time to time. Red was unlike anyone the Artist had ever met. Light seemed to emanate from him. From his complexion, to his demeanor, to his posture. He was the single beautiful thing in a terrible place. Yet there was sadness in his eyes, and his smiles were always tight. Yet the Artist was drawn in like a moth to a flame. He needed to understand him.

So he showed up at Red’s room. Knocking and telling bad jokes to make him smile. Eventually Red learned to let him in and told him that he was from out of the country. He’d been a bright eyed bushy tailed journalist ready to change the world. But while undercover on a secret project, he’d been laid off. And it’s not like the undercover job didn’t pay well. And there he was. The Artist looked a bit differently at Red after that. He was better than this place. He always had been. But he just couldn’t see that.

He takes a moment to breathe. C. B7. A. A7. He stops to tune a string, cursing his own stupidity. How had he not noticed? He was so thin. Always so thin and pale. Sickly. How had he been so stupid? So blinded by his own admiration to notice the sculptures were Paper Mache and nothing was as infinite as he had thought. That sort of thinking didn’t change anything. All he could do was look back and try to understand how this could happen. How he had fallen in love with the boy in Red.

Red never knew. Or maybe he did and they didn’t talk about it. Either way, the only exchanges they had involved fluids. Some for pay, some not. Nobody knew about it except for them, and everything was quieter between the sheets. His mind was quiet when his mouth was against Red’s, and his hands didn’t shake as much as they slid across his chest. Maybe it was unhealthy. Maybe they never knew each other. But it worked for them, and for the first time in a long time the Artist could breathe. Red did that for him. Even later on, he did.

And it wasn’t always sex either. Sometimes they clung to each other, naked bodies telling secrets they could never find the words to say. They talked about their childhoods and favorite flavor of ice cream. Only the most important topics. Red grew up in the city. It suited him. He was so alive, had always been so. The Artist told stories of growing up on a farm. They had been wealthy, but they had been humble. He didn’t talk about moving to this city when his parents forgot his name the second they found a boy in his bed. He knew Red understood by the way he talked about his family. With a mixture of fondness and bitterness that time and distance had done nothing to remedy. They learned more about each other in those rare moments then they had all the other moments put together. The Artist wished they had lasted forever.

Closing his eyes, the next two chords come to mind. Dm. Fm. The memories beat at his skull violently and he grips the guitar to remind himself he is here. On this bed, making these chords, remembering his lines. Wasn’t he always here? He tried to remember. He can’t quite seem to forget. He can’t forget the look on his face when he learned that Red was not nearly as alive as he let on. Sitting on Red’s bed, watching the man as he coughs yet again. A few weeks prior he’d told the Artist his home address so they could meet more often, in a place more private. More safe. The man is coughing and suddenly the Artist understands. He had been coming every day for weeks. The coughing hadn’t stopped. Red was so thin. The medications. He was on a roller coaster he didn’t sign up for and there was no getting off. Maybe Red gotten it before he lost his job, maybe after. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was he wish he had known. Wished he could go back. Wish he’d seen the signs. Wished this weren’t happening. Wished they could be stealing kisses back and forth talking about their damn childhoods. But they weren’t. This was a sick imitation of Red, and he wasn’t having any of it. He just wished that it wasn’t real. That none of this had been real. That he’d never taken that job. He wished he’d never met the sickly boy lying before him. The sickly boy who was staring at him with a look in his eyes he finally understood. Love. Sadness. Acceptance. A raspy voice pierced the stifling silence.

“Enjolras.” The artist was confused.

“What?” he asked, not understand what Red had meant.

“My name is Enjolras, not Red. If you’re going to watch me die, I’d like you to know my name at least.” He felt his stomach sink. This was really happening. He was really dying.

“Grantaire.”, Grantaire choked out, not trusting his voice not to shake if he tried saying anything more.

The smile that floated to Enjolras’ face was vaguely reminiscent of the one Grantaire had been the recipient of for months. It made his chest hurt.

“Just try to sleep, okay? We’ll talk more in the morning.” Grantaire says in the most reassuring tone he could muster. He kisses Enjolras’ forehead and goes to leave the room, pausing at the doorway. Something in his urges him to tell him he loved him. He doesn’t have the courage, though. He stares at him for a moment before leaving the room. He sleeps on the couch. More like stares at the ceiling for a couple hours and eventually falls into a nap. He awakes before the sun rises. He finds Enjolras. His body stiff, cold. In the night he had probably coughed hard enough to move to his rather peculiar position. His back leaned over the side of the bed, his arms hanging over touching the ground. As if reaching. For water, for him? He’d never know. He called the police and left. He couldn’t stand to look any longer. Some days he wishes he had.

C. D9. G7. He can’t see much through the tears, but he knows it by heart. Has for weeks. Every now and then they ask for a musician instead of a painter, or a sculptor. It’s rare, but he used to play guitar all the time so he can handle it. He clears his throat and tries to pull it together. It’s been a while, but not long enough. Not nearly long enough. He clings to his guitar harder as the salty tears slide down his cheeks even faster than before. He curses the day he stepped through these doors for the first time. He’s gone over it all a million times in his head, but it still doesn’t make sense to him. How could this have happened? To be so powerless took all that was left of him. He clears his throat once more, and wipes his face. He needs to practice the voice part with this.

“Stars shining bring above you.  
Night breezes seem to whisper I love you.  
Birds singing in a Sycamore tree.  
Dream a little dream of me.”

He wonders if there’s dreaming where Enjolras is. He hopes so. He really does.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Well, maybe not enjoyed. Maybe cried as much reading it as I did writing it? Either way, leave a comment if you enjoyed it or it made you cry all of the tears!


End file.
